A scream tore through the room.
It took Tristan a second to realize it came from him.
Rosalind’s body collapsed, hitting the cold marble with a sickening thud. Her crimson dress pooled around her, a sharp contrast to the pale color draining from her face.
No.
His vision blurred. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Dante took a slow step back, his smirk widening as Rosalind’s breaths grew shallow. "Well, that wasn’t exactly how I planned it," he mused, voice dripping with amusement. "But I suppose it works just as well."
Tristan moved.
It wasn’t thought, it wasn’t strategy—it was pure violence.
One second, Dante was grinning. The next, Tristan’s fist connected with his jaw so hard that the sickening crack of bone echoed through the room.
Dante crashed into the table behind him,
